Dear diary,

My 2017 journey of self-discovery is coming along. I feel hotter, calmer, happier, bolder, braver, I don’t hate my reflection, cringe when I get undressed, think my tits are all that bad, feel inadequate on a daily basis, cry in the garage for no reason etc. I feel like I’m a better human in general. I am definitely not any more of a grown-up but I don’t know if I ever will be. I think I’ll always be a crass, smug, daft, sassy, ridiculous dickhead and I’m ok with that. Better than ok. 

My life took a bit of a turn in December and now I’m divorced. And another one bites the dust. Elastic Heart by Sia is seriously my fucking jam. I feel like I have a 4-year limit. Maybe that’s how long it takes to truly get to know someone or maybe that’s just how moon cycles work or some shit. I have no idea. I’m not an astrologer. 

I have spoken about love many times. I write these lists, forget what I’ve asked for, settle with someone who ticks some of the boxes, get swept up in all the shite and glamour of a new relationship, repeat. I said that getting to know someone in the bedroom takes time and it fucking does in real life too. I think I forget that. Or I didn’t care. I care now. I feel like I need to introduce a ‘decade-or-more’ minimum. If I haven’t known you for 15 years already, then get ready for the shag of your life in 2032. Trust me, I’m worth the wait. 

I recently read this quote that said “Knowing a person is like music. What attracts us to them is their melody. And as we get to know who they are, we learn the lyrics.” Except I’ve found it to be like those songs you loved as a kid that shock the shit out of you as an adult. Like almost every song in Grease. The chicks’ll cream.

In March 2011 and October 2012 I wrote about what I wanted. (, New year, new list. Well, I’ve edited the old and added the new.


Don’t want someone who:

· gets angry over nothing or everything

· is pessimistic, sees everything bad in the world and hears and festers over only the negative

· doesn’t take care of themselves and gets sick all the time

· hates the outdoors or physical exercise at all

· is arrogant or self-righteous

· is ignorant, a bigot in any way – racism makes me so fricken mad

· is rude to waiters or who starts public fights

· is dismissive of bad things that happen to good people and doesn’t believe in karma.

Want someone who:

· is intelligent, ambitious, kind, funny, loyal, honest and a chameleon in social situations

· works hard for a living and is passionate about what she does

· wants to have a family – as normal as it can be – I am a traditionalist, I like roles, I want to be the wife and the mother and be taken care of and in return bake, look pretty and smile at work Christmas parties and raise beautiful children who are well-mannered, kind and successful

· likes making love and fucking and being dirty depending on the mood. (Seriously they have to be dirty AF. Vanilla sex can suck my dick, I’m too old to be sexually repressed. I want someone who I am legitimately sexually attracted to and can feel their eyes on my body from across the room.)

· wants to travel and not to islands (I have the inability to get a tan and culture is why you travel, not snorkelling or shopping)

· likes animals and feels physically ill at the thought of them being hurt

· likes to read books – none of this ‘my iPad is my book’ sit doesn’t smell like a book so it’s not a book

· is passionate about something, anything, everything

· is existential – philosophical and spiritually enlightened

· loves the cinema and movies of all kinds (especially old movies, if you don’t know who Doris Day is – get outta my house)

· is taller than me (160cms or above) (This is non-negotiable. I want to be able to wear heels without feeling like a drag queen) and no one tiny – not a size 8 that make my size 10-12 ass look bigger than it is (No one who weighs less than 70kgs. This is also non-negotiable). I like butchy and I don’t want anyone who dresses like a 16-year-old boy. (I don’t really care about this anymore, I just want someone is who is clean, comfortable in their own skin, has a bit of style and is sort of preppy maybe which is where I’m at these days.)


Don’t want someone who:

· hates on themselves. Argh, it’s one of my new pet hates. I don’t want anyone self-pitying, feels inadequate for no reason or puts shit on themselves all the time. What am I supposed to say when you bring that to me? “No, don’t feel like that, I’ve said it once, I’ll say it for the 112th time today – you’re amazing.” or “I completely agree and couldn’t have put it better myself!” It just gets awks.

· complains about everything but never does anything about anything. Actually complaining in general can eff off. You have legs and eyes and a fucking awesome life because you don’t live in a third world country, you’re not starving and you didn’t see your family die in front of you today. Fuck off with your middle-class, white girl problems that mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Man, the rage.

Do want someone who:

· is good with Posie – like better than good. Calm, sweet, patient, kind, organised, gives a shit about her development, has old school values, isn’t opposed to teaching her manners and what is right and wrong, thinks she’s cute and isn’t weird/jealous about her loving the shit out of me and vice versa. She will always be my number one and they have to be self-assured enough for that not to unravel them emotionally

· has a nice family – and not nice in a bland way, nice in a kind way. I want to be myself around them, not have to watch what I say, filter my potty mouth or lie about what I like. I want them to be smart, interesting, funny and warm

· is sassy, smug, a smart-arse, has a bit of an ego and gives me a run for my money

· is house-trained and not domestically or administratively challenged

· likes to learn

· loves music

· is ridiculous and hilarious, I want all the endorphins in the world laughing my arse off every day

· is smarter than me

· thinks the world is remarkable and loves nature

· has boobs. I like boobs

· has blue eyes, I have a thing. I said it in 2011 and it still stands.

I’ll start wishing on stars because this list is fucking outrageous and no one could ever exist that ticks ALL of these boxes, right? Maybe I will order one of those dolls online. I’ll call her Joy and she will have long, dark hair and big boobs and be 175cms tall with blue eyes and nice teeth and nice hands. What a shame that she’ll have a useless mouth and turn inside-out if she stands too close to the oven.





Jesus. #Mumlife is a hard act to follow. Partly because I poured my heart and soul out but partly because I have made little progress in my quest for self discovery/love. I’m working on it alright, get off my back. Surprisingly I had a really positive response last month, lots of likeminded support and a shit tonne of hits so I must be doing something right.

This leads me to believe that you all want more mum talk so this month’s entry is about the sleeping, eating and shitting habits of a 17 month old. I’m obviously kidding. Fuck that.

I think I shock people with my parenting attitude at times. Seriously though, who would I be if I wasn’t shocking at least someone? I write a lot of smack on Facebook, put a bit of shit on Posie when she’s being gross and have no issue saying it like it is, even when it’s hard, even when it’s sad, even when I feel lost or overwhelmed or stressed or tired or ugly or boring. People often come up to me at parties to tell me how much they appreciate my honesty and that it is refreshing to hear someone talk about the shit times but who also doesn’t take life/parenting too seriously. 

Mums have got to stop pretending that they’re perfect. Perfection doesn’t exist. Some bitch showed up to my mothers group with shellacked toenails and in an ironed white t-shirt and I never went back. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. I honestly don’t even know if I was wearing a bra that day. We act like there is some kind of standard that we’re supposed to meet and then freak when we don’t. Did Pinterest do this to us? 

Mums have also got to stop freaking out. Who cares if there are blocks all over the house, if your son is 10 months and not even crawling, if your daughter just ate a Christmas beetle, if you’re gonna have toast for dinner over the sink. Calm down. What’s important? Showing up, being present, being interested, listening, being happy, laughing, loving the shit out of your kids, and yourself. Many things, not blocks.

My parenting philosophy is 80s/90s eat your heart out, no bullshit and a bit of hippie-whatever. If “you’re alright!” isn’t your go-to when they fall over, you’re raising a 201# baby and you ought to stop. 

I try to remember the good shit our parents did and embrace the 80s/90s spirit. ‘Free-range bordering on neglect’ as a friend once described it. They let us play independently and with our crazy imaginations. When you were bored they told you to get the fuck over it or go outside. They didn’t read 2,000 parenting books on how best to talk to your kids without hurting their feelings. Heaven forbid I didn’t say “may I” or “thank you” when speaking to someone – holy dooley my mum would have fucking cracked it. They didn’t pander to our every whim and taught us that what you want and what you need are very different things. They said things like “quick, just rub it” when you cracked your head open. Nothing was baby-proofed, you were just told not to touch shit and you didn’t because your mum was scary as fuck. You had a money box and saved up to buy a doll or a bike – not a fucking iTunes gift card or an x-box. They told us to stand up for ourselves, to defend our honour and to be brave. 

I think, no, I know, that we overcomplicate things and it’s so unnecessary. I think we’ve convinced ourselves that this new way is the right way but if it is, it implies that the other ways were wrong. If that was the case, you’d be dead because many moons ago, when cavemen roamed the earth, there were no iPads to entertain their kids during dinner so they killed themselves.

We need to get back to basics and stop raising our kids like we’re perfect and they’re supposed to be. If he’s crying and you’ve process-of-eliminationed the shit out of this sitch to no avail, maybe he’s just being a dick. Whisper that to yourself and relax. Who cares if your kid has a meltdown in Coles? Kids are creeps sometimes. Everybody knows. Chances are I’m judging him but that’s fine because tomorrow it could be my kid and I hope to God you mutter “stupid bitch” under your breath like a normal person. 

Be flawed. Be bold. Be crass. Be happy. Be calm. Be human. Don’t be perfect. No one has time for that shit. Fuck you, Pinterest.